


to your city, to your home

by natsubaki



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Retelling, Dancing, Depression, Falling In Love, Fluff, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Ice Skating, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Missing Scene, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Pining Victor Nikiforov, Romance, Summer of mutual pining, Viktuuri Fluff Bang 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-13 12:01:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18468541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natsubaki/pseuds/natsubaki
Summary: Yuuri was drunk out of his mind. Victor was already planning their wedding.





	to your city, to your home

**Author's Note:**

> I'm skating in close to the deadline, but it's finally done! I love doing canon retellings and missing scenes, and I've been knocking this idea around in my head for a while, so I'm glad participating in the [Viktuuri Fluff Bang](https://viktuurifluffbang.tumblr.com/) motivated me to start this! Special shoutout to my partner, [coachnikiforov](http://coachnikiforov.tumblr.com), who couldn't have been more lovely and patient with me during the process. Her adorable art for this story is included here! ♡♡
> 
> And special thanks to the BMAAHD crew who cheered me through this, and especially guana for not killing me every time I had a question about anything Russian XD I love y'all ♡

Another year, and more of the same.

Victor sips the same bland champagne from a nondescript glass flute, a polite smile plastered on his face as he nods at empty words, tactfully declines more lurid offers, and poses for selfies with fellow competitors. It’s utterly boring, the kind of monotony that settles deep into one’s bones and makes them want to peel their skin off to escape. But after years of the same, he has learned to court existing sponsors and ones itching to entice the Victor Nikiforov name to their brand by playing the part that was not only prescribed to him, but a cage he himself helped to construct.

He looks across the room: the same faces stare back at Victor, slowly changing with the passage of time and bodily damage. The same medal in a different shape sits heavily on his generic hotel nightstand. He wants to die. Or to at least disappear. To stop being Victor Nikiforov, aged twenty-six (a mere twelve days from twenty-seven), the Russian Federation’s top athlete, reigning Olympic champion, current Grand Prix gold medalist, and four-time World champion.

It’s not possible, though.

Victor Nikiforov is too important to stop and too big to fail. He might be more _mature_ than the rest of the competition, but there is still life yet in his knees, no debilitating injuries of note, no career-threatening scandals. By all accounts, he is on top of the world.

But he doesn’t _feel_ anything anymore. Victor does not remember the last time anything reached past his numbness or when he was last moved by his own skating. He performs, and that is all. And that scares him the most.

How much longer will he be able to keep this charade up? Until spectators see through his cracks? Until he shatters?

It is easy to become mired in these thoughts when his cheeks hurt from maintaining the false smiles and he is tugged in several directions at once, paraded around like the commodity he is. Tonight, as the champion, Victor must endure.

A commotion disturbs the scheduled tedium, punctuated by an abrupt change in music from inoffensive jazz to ripping guitars and smashing drums. From across the room, Victor can hear Yuri snarling, and Victor politely excuses himself to filter closer to the source of the disruption. _This is new_.

Within the clearing, a vaguely-familiar man exchanges jibes with the Junior World champion as he slings around a bottle of champagne. His shirt is untucked, his suit jacket lying forgotten somewhere, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. There is nothing but joy written upon his face as he twirls and kicks his legs up, darting around at center stage. In contrast, Yuri visibly fumes, as though he could explode at any second.

 _This is new_.

Fellow skaters whistle and cat-call as the two prowl around each other, twisting and contorting their bodies as they execute impressive handstands and freezes. Victor joins the throng and takes out his phone to document the occasion—one small enjoyment he indulges in is teasing the younger firecracker of a skater, because just about every little thing sets him off. He should really learn to lighten up, or at least attempt to make a friend.

As he observes, Victor realizes something else is new: he’s smiling, just a little bit. Not the kind he is supposed to give, but something that feels almost authentic. It’s almost enough to make him put away his phone and run, but Victor decides _to hell with it_. What has he to lose by just watching, even if his mask slips a little?

Where has he seen this man before? That Victor cannot place him yet bothers him. He would remember a person like this, so exuberant and bursting with life. So _different_. But he has the distinct hunch that they have met somewhere or somehow before.

As though he is being called, Victor circles around the perimeter of the activity, gradually getting pulled closer, until the small Asian man crashes into him and elates, “Dance with me, Victor!”

And oh, those may be the most gorgeous eyes he’s ever looked into.

Victor lets the tidal wave carry him away.

  


ﾟ＊ﾟฺﾟ✿♡*:,ﾟ＊.•

  


Hauling a thoroughly-drunken skater and his missing wardrobe is not the way Victor had predicted his night would have ended, but it’s strangely refreshing. Katsuki Yuuri is much heavier than his slight figure would suggest, though, which is something Victor _should have_ considered after witnessing Yuuri twirl effortlessly upon that pole. And it doesn’t help that Yuuri isn’t _helping_ him: he slides and sways upon Victor’s back like a sleepy koala, and Victor has to pause every few steps to hitch the man back into an upright position.

Admittedly, over the course of the night, Victor might have harbored a few indecent thoughts about Yuuri’s muscular thighs around his body, but this wasn’t quite the way he had pictured it happening.

They trudge through the hotel hallways, and Victor is surprised no one has stormed from their room to yell at them to quiet the hell down. More than once, Victor has slammed into the walls, Yuuri’s unsure grip about Victor’s shoulders sliding around to slap at his face or tug at a fistful of hair.

“Victoooor... _Bikutoruuu_!!” Yuuri slurs, his breath hot in Victor’s ear.

“Yes, yes,” Victor soothes, “I’m right here.”

Yuuri pats at the top of Victor’s head. “Good.” He sounds entirely too satisfied, but Victor can’t help but find it oddly charming.

After what feels like a small eternity, they arrive at Yuuri’s room. It takes a few attempts to balance Yuuri while sliding his keycard through the lock, but they make it past the door relatively intact. Through the darkness, Victor navigates to the bed easily—their rooms are mirrored copies, after all—and Yuuri flops face-first onto the large mattress. Victor plops down heavily next to him, sighing as he sits on the edge to catch his breath and pull the knot of his tie into a less-constricting position.

Yuuri’s tie is still comically wrapped around his head. Yuuri’s shoes clatter onto the floor, released from Victor’s hold. While Victor had been able to wrangle Yuuri back into his button-down, Yuuri had refused pants and his suit jacket. Victor lays those out next to him, patting the jacket pocket to ensure Yuuri’s wallet and cellphone were still there. Next to him, Yuuri nuzzles the plush comforter, curling into himself.

He had had fun. More than fun: he had felt _alive_.

That is more than Victor could say about any banquet he had attended in recent years. And it is all thanks to this man whom Victor had never seen.

It wasn’t that he is an asshole (or he hoped he wasn’t), but somewhere along the line, Victor had stopped watching. To stay at the top, he didn’t really have time to spare for others: when he wasn’t improving his own technique or choreography, Yakov was running drills or yelling at him to stay focused, sometimes helping him to field sponsorships or land new ones. Everything he achieved, after all, aided his skating club, keeping the door open for the future generation of skaters who would come after him. So competitions came and went, and while Victor performed, he stopped _participating_. Other than passing greetings, Victor fell more and more into himself, and seasons started and ended with Victor on the periphery while still being at the center of it all.

Before he can stop himself or think twice about it, Victor reaches over and lightly runs his hand through Yuuri’s hair, pulling it and the hideous tie back from his forehead. Yuuri’s hair is wild and sticky with sweat, but it’s still soft and thick, and Yuuri smiles contentedly in his half-asleep state. It’s suddenly hard to breathe.

Regretfully, Victor checks his watch. It’s late. He should be getting back to his own room, before Yakov starts to ask questions.

Just as Victor begins to rise from the bed, his good samaritan duties completed, Yuuri shoots up ramrod straight. His eyes sweep frantically around the room, and then he’s off like a gunshot, sprinting toward the bathroom. The door bounces against its stop. Retching sounds echo in the hollow space.

Well. It had only been a matter of time.

Sighing, Victor hesitates at the entry. He knocks on the doorframe for propriety’s sake before slowly entering, calling out, “Hey, you okay?”

Yuuri is slumped over the toilet, looking as miserable as he must feel. Victor would be lying if he said he wasn’t familiar with nights like these.

Wordlessly, Victor fishes for a washcloth in the darkness, turning the faucet to cold. He wets and wrings it out, then kneels to gingerly wipe at Yuuri’s face. Yuuri groans as another bout of sickness overcomes him, and he shudders as Victor rubs circles between his shoulder blades.

They stay like this for a while as the intoxication makes its way through Yuuri’s system. When it’s over, Yuuri blearily bats at the lever, making distressed noises all the while. Victor shifts, his knees properly aching now, and moves to get a fresh towel when a hand closes around his wrist. It’s hot and clammy, the hold weak enough to break, but Victor pauses and waits.

“Don’ leave,” Yuuri says, swaying as he rests his head back upon the bowl. His eyes are glassy, the beginnings of tears pooled into the edges.

“I’m not,” Victor murmurs, stroking a thumb along Yuuri’s temple.

Yuuri closes his eyes and hums a little happily. A grin tugs at the corner of Victor’s mouth.

Taking care of a drunken mess would not normally be an act Victor considered as “fun,” but Victor finds that he does not mind. In fact, it never occurs to him to be irritated. He cleans Yuuri up, helping him get out of his champagne and sweat-covered clothes and comb his hair into something less resembling a rat’s nest. He then hoists Yuuri back over to the bed, pulling back the covers and guiding him under.

Yuuri rolls onto his side, that light touch upon Victor’s wrist returning. He looks up at Victor through long, heavy eyelashes, his tongue darting out to swipe along his bottom lip. His lips curve into a suggestive smile. “Stay tonight.”

Victor bites back a laugh. Has Yuuri ever tried to seduce anyone in his life, or is he normally just ballsy enough to try to be smooth right after throwing up the contents of the past three hours of his stomach? “Get some sleep,” Victor says instead, pulling the sheets up over Yuuri’s shoulders and plucking the glasses from his face.

Yuuri pouts but does not object, and this time, Victor holds in a bubble of laughter. He gets up and retrieves a fresh towel and a glass of water, leaving both on the nightstand. After a few seconds of deliberation, he drags one of the small trash bins over and sets it beside the bed. It seems Yuuri has finally passed out, so it’s safe for Victor to make his exit. He collects his own jacket and makes his way to the door, but he only gets halfway before a tiny voice stops him in his tracks.

Victor turns. Yuuri sits up a little on his elbows, his eyes bright in the shadows of the room. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth. “Stay with me?” he calls out, “Until I fall asleep?”

There’s really no helping it, and if Victor were honest, he is glad for an excuse to hang around a bit longer. He pads silently back over to the bed and perches at the edge by Yuuri’s side. Gently, he sweeps Yuuri’s bangs to the side.

“Okay, Yuuri. I’ll stay.”

Yuuri gives him the most radiant smile Victor has ever seen.

A minute, an hour, several thrumming heartbeats later, Yuuri drifts to sleep. Victor watches him the entire time, unable to look away. It’s...fascinating, how this man is able to captivate Victor unlike nothing else has, aside from skating. And it’s silly—they have only just met—but Victor wants to keep looking. To know more about this man—everything, really. To hear his story and how he also came to love the ice, to learn how his movements create the most wondrous melodies, to figure out just how Yuuri can light up an entire room with an infectious smile and raucous laughter, ensnaring all who dare to gaze upon his majesty.

And maybe, when they both are of sounder mind, to experience what Yuuri’s lips taste like, or how his body might feel pressed under his.

Quietly, Victor slips from Yuuri’s room and returns to his own, floating, his heart lighter than it had felt when he had medaled for the first time in his senior career. He lies awake, his heartbeat knocking loudly in his chest, and smiles so wide it aches.

(One day… One day, Victor will marry that man. He knows it.)

  


ﾟ＊ﾟฺﾟ✿♡*:,ﾟ＊.•

  


Victor returns home to little fanfare, just an empty apartment and his ever-faithful dog. He sweeps Makkachin up into his arms and swings her around, the memory of the banquet vivid in his mind. Makkachin yips and slathers Victor’s cheeks with slobber until he sets her down.

“Makkachin, I met someone!” he exclaims to her enthusiastic barks. Victor would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought of the Japanese skater during every waking moment since waking alone in his hotel room in Sochi. He might have even googled the man and watched nearly every available video (and queued the ones he had yet to view in his “watch later” list). And sure, he might be moving _a smidgen_ too fast, but isn’t this how affairs of the heart went down? When one knew, they just _knew_.

“His name is Yuuri,” Victor sings, taking up Makkachin’s front paws and skipping around the living room with her. “Just like our Yura, but they couldn’t be more different! He’s the most _glorious_ dancer, and so handsome, too! I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way about someone.” In reply, Makkachin nibbles on his fingers. Victor laughs and drops her paws, twirling in place before falling down onto the couch. Makkachin immediately scrabbles up to drape herself across his chest, and Victor buries his hands in her curls. “Oh, my Makkachinushka, you’re sure to love him!” Because at the present, it might only be infatuation speaking, but Victor is convinced he already does.

He would wear tails. But not in a drab black. White. They both would wear white. Lighter colors always suited Victor best, and the contrast would be stunning against Yuuri’s dark features.

They wouldn’t have a winter wedding. It would be far too cliche, not to mention busy with Yuuri’s season. No, better to have it in spring. Mid-spring, after all the competitions are done, with a gold medal around Yuuri’s neck. Cherry blossoms would be bursting in clouds of pink if they chose to hold it in Yuuri’s hometown, or at least the weather would be milder should they choose here in St. Petersburg. The entire venue would be filled with flowers, fragrant and vibrant, a physical blooming of his affections.

And Makkachin, of course, would have to be part of the ceremony. As his closest friend and companion, it would feel wrong it she weren’t there. Maybe not up on the altar with him (because what if Yuuri didn’t like dogs—oh god, _what if he didn’t like dogs_ ), but perhaps to the side, with their rings tied to her collar.

Speaking of rings, Victor wouldn’t demand matching ones (only if Yuuri wanted it), but they would have to be gold, naturally. And despite his many glittering costumes, Victor also didn’t care for diamonds or any embellishments, but if Yuuri wanted them, that ring would be encrusted with shining stones—so many that one could see the gleam off them a kilometer away.

He would give Yuuri anything, anything he ever dreamed of or desired.

If only Yuuri would accept his heart.

Okay. He might be getting _a little_ ahead of himself. But it is hard to curb his enthusiasm when so many emotions are bursting out of him, so many still strange and foreign.

They would have time, wouldn’t they? Both would be busy with their own national championships, then Europeans for Victor and Four Continents for Yuuri. It is still some months away from Worlds, where their paths would cross again. Yuuri had made it to the Final, after all—Victor had no doubts about Yuuri breezing through his competitions. And Victor still had not decided what his own plans were after this season.

_"Be my coach!"_

Maybe, just maybe...he would take Yuuri up on that crazy offer.

Just as soon as Victor begins to entertain that thought, cold dread washes over him like he had jumped into the depths of the Neva. His hands still on Makkachin’s back. “Fuck me. I don’t have his phone number.” Victor sits up on his elbows, panic creeping up on him as he stares into the abyss of his dog’s eyes. “Makkachin, I didn’t get his number.”

Makkachin huffs in Victor’s face, then resettles herself over him.

“I’m an idiot.”

It would be _fine_. Right? Victor could always get Yuuri’s number from another skater, or maybe even his coach. But how would that look?

It would look so lame.

“Lame” and “Victor Nikiforov” didn’t belong in the same sentence, unless a negative was thrown in the mix.

No matter. What is meant to be will be.

Right?

  


ﾟ＊ﾟฺﾟ✿♡*:,ﾟ＊.•

  


A birthday passes. A new year is heralded in alone, without a kiss.

Katsuki Yuuri does not exist on the internet. Victor has scoured social media sites, even blogs specific to Japan, but every pathway leads to a dead end. The few that seem like they might have belonged to Yuuri have long been abandoned, unused for several years, or sometimes completely devoid of content. The only things Victor has managed to dredge up are Yuuri’s official JSF profile, some rare unintentional photobombs on Phichit Chulanont’s Instagram, and a handful of fan accounts, which also lament over lack of new information. (The sheer thirst that erupts when there _is_ something to report is astonishing, however.)

The thing is, _Victor_ has a social media presence. Quite a large one, too. It’s not boasting to say he regularly lands on celebrity top ten lists for follower counts; it’s plain fact. So if _Yuuri_ had been looking for him...he should have found Victor by now.

And he hasn’t.

Victor’s heart drops each time he checks his phone to find his inbox empty, crushed by disappointment when the notifications he does receive are not from the person he wishes they are from. New followers, but none of them Katsuki Yuuri. Thousands upon thousands of likes and replies, but none from Katsuki Yuuri. Phone calls and text messages, but _none of them from Katsuki Yuuri_.

What good is social media if it can’t connect him with the one person Victor so desperately wishes to meet?

So he throws himself into his training. Victor begins choreographing a program dedicated to the night that haunts his dreams, because if Yuuri does not return his feelings, then at least Victor can funnel his frustration into something _productive_. The remaining months speed by in a too-familiar repetition of wake, practice, eat, sleep. Finally, March brings him to Japan, where _he_ should be.

Only he’s not.

Victor had immersed himself into his training blindly, not paying attention to anything else, counting down the days until the competition that would bring them together again. Yuuri should have easily won his events, or at least medaled at them—he is his country’s top skater, after all, the same as Victor. It had fueled Victor, finally skating with a purpose, certain that if he did well, he would be given another opportunity. In no universe did Victor ever fathom it would not happen.

But the truth confronts him clear as day: Yuuri’s name does not appear on any rosters.

The short program passes in a daze. Victor moves through his steps mechanically, at the core still in shock. It is enough for the judges, though: he easily sweeps into first place, and the fans are none the wiser. He smiles at the crowds, waving and bowing, and wonders if somewhere out there, Yuuri is watching. Perhaps even within these stands.

Reality sets in on the eve of the free skate. Victor tries not to feel bitter. It is not like Yuuri had promised him anything; this is all due to Victor and his stupid feelings and grandiose plans, a stark reminder of why it was a mistake to ever want anything for himself. It only leads to disappointment. People have their fun and take from Victor what they want, and then they leave him when it’s convenient and he is no longer of use.

Perhaps Yuuri, too, had only sought a wild night. Perhaps because Victor had not stayed that time, Yuuri had lost interest. Or perhaps the following morning, he had woken up and realized his drunken error and had brushed aside the night that had changed Victor’s life as an inconsequential mistake.

What else could nearly four months of silence mean?

Taking to the ice with sorrow hanging heavy in his heart, Victor assumes his starting position at the center of the rink. His boots weigh like shackles, his costume a constrictive vise. The music begins, and Victor skates _Stammi Vicino_ for the last time. He allows the pain to seep through his cracks, just enough to feel the words in his bones, in his blood, in his very soul. He pushes it through his arms and legs, in how they extend and reach, through every turn and glide. This is all he has ever known, and it could all end tonight. He would cry if he weren’t on the ice, in front of millions of watchful eyes.

No, that would come later, in the privacy of his hotel room, certainly with another meaningless medal staring back at him, without even the comfort of his dog to soothe the grief. In this four-and-a-half-minute stretch, he keeps himself together, executing his jumps and spins with a level of precision accumulated and honed over a storied career. Perhaps, this would be his final skate: the one history would remember him by. Maybe it is time to retire and settle into a quiet life, maybe even following in Yakov’s footsteps.

_This story that has no meaning will vanish tonight together with the stars._

Victor will recover from this. He always does.

When he had commissioned this song and choreographed its routine, Victor hadn’t had a person in mind. Just a gnawing feeling, an ache that would not subside. A hollowness he wished to fill. Now he skates the program with the last of the resolve he has, and like the prayer it is. He so desperately wants to _believe_.

_If I could see you, eternity will be born from hope._

If Yuuri was paying attention, would he listen?

Would he _hear_?

  


ﾟ＊ﾟฺﾟ✿♡*:,ﾟ＊.•

  


The tenth of April is a day Victor will always remember. _Your beau has quite the way of making an impression ;)_ the text message from Christophe reads, preceding a shortened link.

It is one of his scheduled off days. Victor had had half a mind to just go in anyway, at the risk of Yakov chasing him out of the building, but he ultimately had decided against it. Instead, he sleeps in and skips breakfast, lounging with Makkachin while the television drones the news in the background.

The question that dogs at Victor’s heels still bothers him: now, at twenty-seven years of age, with numerous streaks of winnings in the books, what would he do? He still does not have an answer to that. Everything feels rather...pointless, really. Repetitive. Victor once thought that he had glimpsed another path for himself, perhaps a place of his own, _for_ someone else, but… That path had inevitably dead-ended, as all things around him seemed to do. He hadn’t made peace with it, not yet, but soon enough. There is no reward to be found in fighting ghosts.

Even if his traitorous hands continue to type a certain Japanese skater’s name into the search bar.

His phone buzzes by his hip, and Victor nearly drops it on Makkachin’s head when the link loads. He coos apologies for the fright, rubbing between the poodle’s ears, and scrubs backwards on the video slider to restart it.

There is no music, only the whispering of metal cutting across fresh ice. Victor recognizes this person. He recognizes these movements. He had created this dance, after all.

Has the cry he had screamed into the void finally found its answer within his palms?

It’s not _perfect_ : most of the quads have been downgraded to triples, but it doesn’t matter. Yuuri skates the program with _feeling_ , with all the emotion Victor has lost—or never had to begin with. And in that manner, it is exactly as Victor had intended it. On the small screen of his phone, Yuuri breathes life into a program Victor had conceived when he had felt the most dead inside.

This _had_ to mean something. It took a tremendous amount of time and effort to copy a piece of choreography, right down to the fine details of fingertip placement and complicated jump entries. Just when Victor had mustered his resolve to forget about that night, Yuuri had relayed the ball back into his court.

And now it is Victor’s turn to answer.

It would mean giving up his competitive career. Victor is...inexplicably okay with this. For the past two decades, he has dedicated himself singularly to skating. Every step had led him to where he currently stands: successful, lauded, wealthy...but incredibly empty, isolated, and lonely. Isn’t it time he did something completely selfish and chased not glory but some other fulfillment? Hopefully one that is lasting, whether it be a new career path or a relationship that promises _more_.

Victor has long recognized that he has needed a change. Yuuri’s response just makes his decision that much easier, despite Victor not knowing the hows of that change.

Well, he would just have to throw his fate to chance. It has guided him to this point, so far, and if Victor were to look at his life in the grand scheme of things, he has nothing to lose but everything to gain.

Nothing to lose, except for the potential of something better, if he were to cower away now.

Taking out his computer, Victor clicks through his files until he reaches a folder of various forms and saved documents. After the GPF, he had started to fill out paperwork for his extended transfer to Japan, as well as his break and intention to coach to the Russian Skating Federation. They would not be happy, but… Victor smiles to himself. He doesn’t really care.

He pulls up a new tab on his browser and starts searching for freight rates and flights to Fukuoka.

  


ﾟ＊ﾟฺﾟ✿♡*:,ﾟ＊.•

  


A fresh wrinkle has sprouted across Yakov’s forehead, and Victor is 98.9% certain he is the cause. The older man pleads at him, his exasperated words huffing out between falling snowflakes. Against the obsidian of the sky and the white of the slithering clouds, Yakov looks like a gnarled, fuming dragon, his yelling accented by the curl of his exhalations in the frigid night air.

“Vitya! Don’t go—stay here!”

A part of Victor is sad to leave. He acknowledges that his decision must slap like a blindsided betrayal. He had never mentioned any of his plans to Yakov, but the man had been _there_. If Yakov knew him at all, he must have suspected that this is the road Victor would eventually tread upon.

“Yakov, you were the best coach I ever had. You always will be.” It’s true. And more, he is the father figure Victor needed to get where he is now. He almost feels like the prodigal son, running off to chase his fortune.

“If you walk away now, you can never come back!” Maybe that is a good thing. Victor keeps this thought to himself.

Closing the distance between them in two long strides, Victor drops his suitcase and pulls the older man in close, kissing him on the cheek. “Goodbye... I’m sorry I can’t do as you say this time.”

As he steps away to hail a cab, Yakov grumbles but then cries out, “At least let me drive you there!”

Victor turns, a small smile forming on his lips. When will he ever stop being a child or needing this man?

“Thank you, Yasha.”

  


ﾟ＊ﾟฺﾟ✿♡*:,ﾟ＊.•

  


Yutopia Katsuki sits at the foot of a mountain in a quaint seaside town in the south of Japan. It is at once larger and smaller than Victor had expected it to be, which means in reality he had no idea what to expect, despite having combed through various booking and review sites for glimpses into the business. He stands at the door for far longer than socially acceptable and takes a deep breath. He can do this. It’s just a few steps over the threshold, and he’ll be face to face with the man who has possessed his thoughts since turning twenty-seven.

This isn’t like him. His hands bear the slightest tremble, and his heart has taken up residence in his throat. Victor has never been the nervous type, barreling into rooms and situations as though everyone had been waiting on his arrival—they just weren’t aware of it. And now...he doesn’t feel any of that brazen audacity at all. What holds him back now is...he so desperately wants these people inside to accept him.

Beside him, Makkachin butts her forehead against his thigh and huffs. Victor absently runs a hand over her scruff. “ _Spasibo, moya horoshaya_ ,” he murmurs, relishing his native tongue for what will probably be the last time in a while that he will get to use it.

He is a foreigner in a foreign land, lacking a guide or map to navigate a terrain he has never experienced before. Coaching, romance, rejection… What if Yuuri laughs at him, or worse, scorns him? What if he had arrived here, having packed up his entire life, only for Yuuri to turn him away? Victor really didn’t have a backup plan. It was this, or…

...Return to more of the same?

No, he did not have any life left in him for that. Retire into quiet obscurity? It could be nice. Or it could hurtle him further into despair, sending him to dark places he fought to keep sequestered to the side.

Well, if nothing else, Victor Nikiforov is a man of action. Whatever goal he set his sights upon, he obtains. This is not any different.

Snow crunches underfoot as he steps forward. Victor smiles to himself; it’s as though he brought a little bit of Piter with him. Maybe this place isn’t so foreign, after all.

After all that inner turmoil, Victor is more than a little disappointed to learn that Yuuri is not present when he arrives. No one tells him where Yuuri is when Victor mentions him by name, other than that he’s “Out. Back later.” Yuuri’s father is nice enough, greeting Victor enthusiastically in his stilted English, and someone who must be Yuuri’s sister frantically eyes the moving truck delivery pulling into the loading zone. Yuuri’s mother ushers him into the warm venue from the cold, taking his hands in hers and helping Victor remove his coat and shoes.

They have the same smile—Yuuri and his mother. Their eyes both crinkle at the corners, the shape of their mouths so similar.

Yuuri… Victor really wishes he could see Yuuri right now. He presses past the ache in his chest and allows the family to shuffle him further inside the establishment. Makkachin immediately makes herself at home, racing past him into what Victor assumes is the main room. Victor apologizes profusely for her, attempting to call her back, but Yuuri’s father—Toshiya, he’d introduced himself as—merely laughs, an almost-cackle, and waves him on.

Within the entrance is what Victor can only properly describe as a shrine. Although he is not there, images of Yuuri stare back at him: large promotional posters, smaller standing frames of much-younger Yuuris in various costumes, certificates and plaques and trophies all bearing his name. There is even a little sign advertising a special meal set that a smiling Yuuri holds up (“ _Katsu! Katsudon!_ ” whatever that means).

Others might find it a bit tacky, but Victor is instantly enamoured. They must be so proud of their son, to display all his accomplishments where everyone can see. Victor’s own collection is halved between the medals he keeps at home and the rest that stand encased beside those of all the other professional skaters who had emerged from Sportivnyy Klub Chempionov.

The building itself is old but well-kept, rich wood paneling and floors accented by pale paper screens. A few customers lounge upon low tables set atop woven straw mats, casual in green robes, their attention stolen by the flat screen television at the back of the room. Somewhere off to the side, Victor can hear the sounds of chopping and dishes clanking. Makkachin has already claimed a cushion beside the television and snoozes away.

A tug on his sleeve pulls his own attention. Yuuri’s mother—Hiroko—beams up at him. “You rest now. Wait. Try _onsen_?” When Victor just stares at her, she bites her lower lip by the corner (just as Yuuri once had done). “Hot spring?”

“Oh. _Oh!_ ” Victor exclaims, nodding his head. “Yes, thank you. That would be lovely.” Hiroko smiles again, standing up on her tiptoes to pat him on his cheek, and then promptly shepherds him down another narrow hallway. She points out the various amenities and hands him a small instructional card before imparting him with another kind smile and bowing deeply as she leaves.

Victor stares at the towel and card within his hands and swallows, clenching his jaw. What the hell is he doing? Too late to back down now.

The card doesn’t help much, as it is written entirely in Japanese, but at least it has small illustrations to guide Victor through proper bathing etiquette. The shower room is blessedly empty, and Victor takes his time scrubbing off the film of international travel, trying not to think about what comes next.

He’ll get there when Yuuri returns home.

Once Victor is done rinsing off, he steps outside expecting a blast of chill, only to be bathed in a humid heat instead. The springs, too, are empty, and Victor eases himself into the cloudy pool. It’s a bit hotter and deeper than he anticipated, but he quickly finds himself melting within its embrace and situates himself along the back wall. Alone with his thoughts, Victor allows his mind to drift.

Yuuri...where is he? It’s not like he had announced himself prior, or as though Yuuri were expecting him. But not having Yuuri there when he arrived feels irrationally lonely.

Good things come to those who wait—isn’t that how the saying goes?

Some time later, the tranquil is disturbed, pulling Victor back into the present. Just as quickly as Yuuri had initially burst into Victor’s life, Yuuri stumbles into the hot springs in a flurry of fogged glasses and wet socks. He looks a little different than what Victor last remembers. His face is a bit rounder, his once-lithe body hidden by a large jumper and winter coat. His hair is still as fluffy and his cheeks just as rosy.

“Vi- Victor… Why are you here?”

Why? Wasn’t it obvious? Yuuri had requested this of him, after all. Without thinking, Victor stands and emits his brightest media smile, complete with a Certified Nikiforov Wink. “Yuuri, starting today, I’m your coach. I’ll make you win the Grand Prix Final!”

“What!?”

Before him, Yuuri seems to visibly deflate. There is a heavy silence that endures above the burbling of the fountain before Yuuri utters, barely above a whisper, “Oh. Excuse me,” and scuttles away.

To say that was not the welcome Victor had expected would be the understatement of his _career_. A simple _welcome_ or _hello_ , or hell, even a _Thank you, I’m so sorry I ghosted you all those months ago, but please put on some clothes_ would have sufficed! Instead, Victor is left alone again, reeling from the cosmic conundrum that is Katsuki Yuuri.

When Victor emerges from the hot springs, Yuuri is again nowhere to be found, and Victor bristles at how easily Yuuri keeps disappearing from his life. Toshiya shows him to a table while Hiroko sets out a simple meal, but Victor can barely taste the food, although it smells appetizing. Victor follows other patrons’ example and dozes after lunch, the jet lag finally catching up with him. He can hear sounds, Yuuri and another woman speaking, but he tunes them out. Sometime during his nap, Makkachin had crept over to him, and Victor relishes the familiarity of her weight and warmth; he can’t remember the last time he was able to sleep in without worry, his dog in his arms.

A sneeze startles him awake.

“I’m starving,” he mutters in Russian before remembering where and whom he’s with. “Hungry…”

“Huh? Um, what would you like to eat?” Yuuri asks, turning his attention from an older woman.

Food reveals a lot about a person, so… “Hmm… As your coach, I’d like to know what your favorite food is, Yuuri.”

“What?” Is that all Yuuri knows how to say to him? If Victor were made of weaker stuff, he would surely wither, turn tail, and run back to St. Petersburg. He presses onward.

He doesn’t have to wait long before a large, steaming bowl is presented before him with a flourish. “Wow! Amazing!” he says as he examines the dish: there is rice and a thick cut of breaded pork, covered in runny egg.

“Our specialty, the _katsudon_ , extra large!” Hiroko announces with gusto. With eyes upon him, Victor digs in.

The first bite is like heaven on his tongue. “ _Vksuno_! Delicious! Too good for words! Is this what god eats!?” The praise isn’t just for show. Victor has dined in three-Michelin star restaurants, has consumed meals made by private chefs specifically catered to his nutritional needs, but this tastes like a homecoming. And this is the food that Yuuri grew up on, prepared and seasoned with love. There is little else that could possibly compare.

“I’m glad you like it,” Yuuri says with the sweetest smile and flush across his cheeks. He fidgets, but the pride radiating off him is evident.

“Yuuri gains weight easily, so he was only allowed to eat it when he won a competition, right?” a woman with long hair pipes in, grinning devilishly.

“Oh? So have you eaten _katsudon_ recently?”

“Yes, yes. I eat it often,” Yuuri replies easily.

If his next words sound a bit meaner than Victor intends, he can’t really help himself. Months of being kept in a limbo-like hold have frayed some of his normal good nature, and the pent-up frustration bleeds out. Because while he was wasting away in a lifeless monotony, Yuuri was doing what? Lazing around, eating to his heart’s content? “Why? You haven’t won anything. With that pig-like body of yours, lessons would be meaningless. You need to get back to your weight at last year’s Grand Prix Final, at the least...or I can never coach you.”

Could he be a little more tactful? Sure, he has been told that countless numbers of times. But there is no point in tiptoeing around the problem. To be fair, Yuuri isn’t _that_ out of shape...he wouldn’t have been able to manage skating Victor’s own free skate program, downgraded jumps or not, if he were. But for a sport like theirs, every gram counts when it comes to jumps. The more weight, the harder the entry, the higher the stress on joints when landing. And Yuuri is notoriously bad on his jumps.

Before Yuuri can defend himself, Yuuri's sister interrupts. “Hey, this luggage is in the way.”

Victor waves at Mari, pointedly ignoring Yuuri’s distress. “Can you take it to the room where I’ll be staying?” he requests.

Mari’s face drops, and she hisses something to Yuuri in Japanese, causing the other skater to scramble away with her.

“I’m sorry it’s so small. We only had an unused banquet room available,” Yuuri says between labored wheezes as the last of the boxes are loaded into the room.

A _banquet_ room, eh. Was Yuuri teasing him? Would he maybe open up a little, now that the two of them are alone?

“You look anxious,” Victor says, turning on the megawatt charm. “You can pay the coaching fee after you achieve success! I’ll bill you later.” He’s only half-joking. Certainly, his services do not come for free. But Victor is also taking into consideration that the Katsukis are housing him, so the matter of compensation can be worked out later. Victor Nikiforov is not a freeloader.

“Th-thank you.”

This is what he had been longing for all those months, right? To be next to the man before him and drink in his presence. To find out more about the mysterious skater who had swept his heart away. Victor kneels before Yuuri and reaches out, lightly tipping up Yuuri’s chin with his fingertips. “Yuuri, tell me everything about you,” he begins, outlining his intentions. “What kind of rink do you skate at? What’s in this city?” He traces down the edge of Yuuri’s jaw along his neck, dragging his touch down to grasp at Yuuri’s hand. “Is there a girl you like? Before we start practicing, let’s build some trust in our relationship.” Victor leans in, testing just how close Yuuri will allow him.

Not much, apparently. Yuuri turns beet red and scrambles back into the hallway.

“What? Why are you running away?”

“Uh, no reason…” he stammers, pressing up against the wall. It’s...baffling. The Yuuri of _here_ is standoffish and easily scared, like getting too close to a wild animal, but rather than bite, Yuuri bolts. Nowhere is the playful and seductive energy of the Yuuri of _then_.

And Yuuri keeps on running. Despite the many knocks on Yuuri’s door and calling of his name, the other man resolutely keeps his door shut. The rejection stings, but at least Victor has not been kicked out. There is still room to bring the situation around.

But hadn’t this been what Yuuri had wanted? Why is he acting this way? Had coming here been a mistake?

On his first night in Hasetsu, surrounded by a fortress of cardboard boxes on a thin futon, a discouraged Victor buries his face in Makkachin’s fur and cries himself to sleep.

  


ﾟ＊ﾟฺﾟ✿♡*:,ﾟ＊.•

  


The first order of business is getting Yuuri back into shape.

Victor runs drills harder than Yakov ever had, eager to spend time with Yuuri and get to work. And to his credit, Yuuri begins to open up. By distracting Yuuri—giving him a purpose—it negates Yuuri’s impulse to shy away from him. Victor is merciless when it comes to eating, sleeping schedules, practice, training. _Almost_ as hard as he is on himself, because he’s saving that regimen for later. For when Yuuri is at his optimal fitness, and there is less risk of injury.

He does not go with Yuuri to ballet practice, but Victor sneaks in sometimes and watches from the separation of the studio window. Yuuri is even more graceful on land, twirling and sashaying through the air with abandon, as though gravity is a mere suggestion and not a universal force. His muscles house decades of memory, ingrained into the very fibers of his body. In the studio, Yuuri is focused, confident, alluring. Victor slips out before he can be noticed.

They settle into a routine, and something like normalcy begins to weave between the minutes and hours they spend in each other’s company.

A week later, the Ice Tiger crashes into that normalcy and incinerates it.

  


ﾟ＊ﾟฺﾟ✿♡*:,ﾟ＊.•

  


“Let’s go back to Russia!” Yuri Plisetsky insists, sparking fear in Yuuri’s eyes. Given Victor’s forgotten promise, it is not an unreasonable demand. The truth is, Victor had not really forgotten, but...he has no inspiration left. What could he give to the younger skater, when Victor has nothing in him to offer?

But more importantly, how can Victor turn this ordeal into motivation for Yuuri and still deliver on his promise to Yura?

Katsudon, evidently, is the answer. “I want to eat katsudon with you, Victor. I want to keep on winning, and keep on eating katsudon!” is what Yuuri proclaims when Victor asks what it is the Japanese skater wants from him. Victor is no fool—he can read between the lines. What Yuuri wants is for Victor to turn him into a _champion_.

That, Victor can do. He has the resume and the mastery etched into the makeup of his body, and Yuuri possesses the raw potential.

“Okay, I’ve decided! Tomorrow, I’ll choreograph a program for both of you to the same music I’m using in my short program,” Victor declares with delight, to his new students’ shock and horror. “This piece has several different arrangements. I’ll think of a different program for each of you, of course.”

He does not have to disclose that the story behind one of the programs is _based_ on one of them. That is his secret to keep.

Yura turns on Yuuri, exuding a childish, malicious glee. “Victor will do whatever the winner says!”

Sure, Victor can be a bargaining chip. Although both Yuris would probably not admit it for differing reasons, they both look up to Victor and wish to prove themselves. It’s enough motivation for the time being. “Great! I love that kind of thing!”

Thus begins the one-week countdown.

  


ﾟ＊ﾟฺﾟ✿♡*:,ﾟ＊.•

  


When Victor had asked them if they had ever thought about love, he had not expected _this_ answer.

Katsudon??

That is the image that comes to mind when Yuuri attempts to channel his inner eros? Why would he struggle with the impression of food when Victor had crafted this program around their fateful encounter that December night?

It wasn’t Victor who had stumbled into Yuuri’s arms and whisked his heart away, only to cast it aside at the night’s end. What was Yuuri playing at?

He tries to work with it, he really does. Every athlete has their unconventional methods to push them towards the top… Hell, Yakov in his time had entertained some of Victor’s more hare-brained ideas. So Victor shouldn’t be taking this as personally as he does. But it still feels like a gut-punch, especially when Yuuri still slides away from him so easily, when his eyes skitter from Victor’s gaze.

What happened to the Yuuri of that night, some five months ago? The one who so brazenly challenged Yura to a dance-off and boldly requested Victor to come to Japan to coach him? Who swept Victor into his arms and marched into Victor’s heart, steadfastly making himself a home there?

Victor hasn’t determined if having Yura there is a blessing in disguise… He has awakened Yuuri’s competitive side (and isn’t _that_ déjà vu), making him buckle down and get serious about training. But also, it is one more chaotic component to manage in a situation Victor has little grasp on.

So who can blame him, really, when Victor spends his night drinking his way through Hasetsu, until dawn comes to pull him to the rink? He gets drunk, accepting every beer and cup of sake offered to him, because what else is there to do in this situation?

Yuuri constantly shuts him out. He is skittish at the barest of touches. Where did the person who spun him around and dipped him low, full of light and laughter go? Would he return, if Victor got him as stupidly drunk as he was getting himself now?

It’s not as though Victor has been trying to keep his desire in check. In probably what is a misguided effort, Victor flirts blatantly in an attempt to mitigate his real feelings and perhaps reawaken something in Yuuri. If he lays it on thick, then the flirtation can be passed off as a joke, fulfilling the “touchy and overly-familiar European” stereotype. But with each passing day, it becomes harder to hide his true intentions in Yuuri’s presence.

Did Yuuri not want him anymore? Had Victor misread him from the start?

That can’t be right. Because sometimes Yuuri responds to Victor in a way that makes him hope. It’s in his lingering glances, when he thinks Victor isn’t paying attention. Yuuri’s eyes track Victor whenever they are in the same room, as though he were a magnet drawn to Victor’s polarity. It’s in the way his skating mimics Victor’s own, which could only be born from years of practice and close dissection. It’s how gradually, Yuuri has been closing their physical distance, like a comet slowly drawing into his orbit.

If Victor were to describe him, he would say Yuuri is a never-ending matryoshka doll. He is not sure he will ever uncover the truth that Yuuri harbors inside.

But one thing is for certain, Victor notes as he watches Yuuri skate by in a determined blur: it will be a delight to see what is next.

  


ﾟ＊ﾟฺﾟ✿♡*:,ﾟ＊.•

  


Victor is not surprised when Yuuri proclaims victory over Yuri during _Onsen on Ice_. His performance is unlike Victor has ever seen it. It is as if a switch had been flipped, connecting missing circuits, and suddenly, Yuuri _gets_ it.

“I’ll become a tasty katsudon, so look at me,” Yuuri mumbles, his face pale as a ghost.

“Of course. I love katsudon,” Victor tells him, even though he means, _I’m falling in love with you, and you don’t even know it._

The hug Yuuri gives him is not quite the same as when he had held Victor that night. It is still hesitant and unsure, and Victor can feel the anxiety vibrating through Yuuri’s slender body. But there is nothing he can do now. The outcome of this night and their future is entirely up to Yuuri.

Even still, Yuuri is warm, and Victor clings to his lingering warmth as Yuuri steps out onto the ice.

He is captivating. Before him—the entire town—is a Katsuki Yuuri no one has ever seen. He is technically far from perfect; it is the poorest rendition Victor has seen execution-wise, assuredly attributed to his nerves. Yura prevails in that regard, his program having been executed with better precision. But whereas Yura simply ran through the motions, stringing components along, Yuuri had melded his into something dark and sensual, a dance men would sign their lives over to witness.

By the end, there had been no question as to the winner.

It is a valuable lesson for the pair of young skaters. Victor could not be more proud.

Standing beside Yuuri on the blocks, Victor observes their audience. He is used to being looked at, but all eyes are trained upon the man next to him. As they should be. Victor smirks, sliding an arm around Yuuri’s waist as he hears the man falter. Yuuri folds into him and regains his voice.

The world does not know what awaits it.

  


ﾟ＊ﾟฺﾟ✿♡*:,ﾟ＊.•

  


It had been a good practice day. Yuuri has become comfortable enough with _Eros_ now that Victor is confident he can pull it off with consistency. Yuuri has even improved at his quad salchow, landing it at about sixty percent than his starting rate of thirty. Today, they moved onto choreographing Yuuri’s free skate program, both pleased by the direction it is taking. With a few more days, they will be able to work out the bones of the program, giving them the rest of the time for refinement and developing a strategy to work it up in difficulty as the season progresses.

“Mmm, I’m beat,” Yuuri yawns as he stretches his arms over his head.

“You did well today,” Victor praises, partly to see the cute flush that Yuuri always gets, but mostly because it’s true. Yuuri ducks his head, fidgeting with the arm of his glasses. “We definitely earned a dip in the hot springs.”

It will be nice to soak his muscles. Victor isn’t _old_ by any means, although the media had been clamoring for news of his retirement since even before he had announced his break. But Yuuri and his monstrous stamina run Victor ragged on the best of days.

“It’s still so bright out,” Victor says as he looks up to the sky. “In Russia, there’s this phenomenon called _belyh nochei_ , or ‘white nights,’ that happens around this time. In Piter, it’s even brighter than this, and stays like that for months. There’s a festival for it, full of singing and dancing.” He had always enjoyed it as a child, although in recent years, his routine left little leeway outside of traveling to the rink and back home. He turns to Yuuri with a smile. “You should see it. I’ll take you some day.”

Yuuri looks up at him, brown eyes wide and wondrous, glowing a honeyed amber in the vestigial light of the sun. He pauses, bringing Victor to a stop, and before he grasps what is happening, Victor is being dragged towards the distant shore. It was not so long ago that he and Yuuri had sat at this exact beach, the air still chilly against their hands and cheeks, and bereft of ideas, Victor had asked Yuuri what the man wanted Victor to be to him.

_“I want you to stay who you are, Victor!”_

It should not be a surprise how Yuuri continues to surprise him. Yet every time it happens, it’s like the wind is knocked out of Victor, leaving him reeling and gasping for air.

Yuuri dashes across the shallow dunes and stomps into the waves, kicking up water as Makkachin eagerly joins in and runs circles around him. Against the golden sunlight, the water drops shimmer like an offering of cascading diamonds to a fabled water spirit. “C’mon, Victor!”

“I thought you said you were tired,” Victor says through a grin.

“I am. Was. Who cares!”

_“That’s my way of showing my love.”_

They race along the beach, splashing through the lukewarm waves, jumping and swaying to an imaginary tune. Yuuri dancing is always a revelation, his body moving as though he were some deity spinning stars and galaxies into existence. Victor matches him step for step, losing himself in the way he has only felt upon the ice.

Twisting and turning, the pair carefully orbit each other, Yuuri teasing as he slips close and then quickly darts away to break into a graceful pirouette. It is painfully nostalgic, and Victor briefly wonders if Yuuri has been toying with him this entire time when Yuuri pulls him close with a hand around his waist. It’s almost like _that night_ , but Yuuri is more hesitant than bold as he twirls Victor around, hand in hand, and there’s no hint of suggestion, just a pure moment of levity. Victor tightens his grip, his heart stuttering from a memory he keeps buried.

It is over far too soon. When they break apart, Yuuri is laughing, which is a tiny miracle. Sweat drips from his brow, his face lightly flushed with exertion. The sun is no longer golden, burning out to a fiery blaze as it breaks upon the horizon, flickers of orange dancing upon the waves like koi fish drifting along the line of a river.

“That was fun,” Yuuri says as he runs the back of his arm across his forehead. Makkachin is still prancing about Yuuri’s heels, barking to get his attention. Yuuri stoops down to rub at her ears, flopping them like little wings. “Did you like that too, girl?”

“Makka was a born dancer. Her grace rivals even the Bolshoi primas,” Victor grins as his dog barks happily at the mention of her name.

And there it is again, that bright burst of auditory sunshine. Victor wants to bathe in the sound, bask in its warmth. “I’m sure if she could wear skates, she would win all the gold medals. Perfect PCS,” Yuuri coos at the poodle before brushing his knees of sand and standing up. He looks out to the ocean and is silent for a moment. It’s like he is searching for something within those waters, or perhaps in the sky. Victor wishes he could tell what Yuuri is thinking, but Yuuri is ever the mystery as when Victor first arrived unannounced in Japan.

No, since that night, long ago, in Sochi.

But Victor chooses not to intrude upon Yuuri’s thoughts, allowing him his space. Makkachin butts her head against Yuuri’s legs, and Yuuri is pulled back. He smiles, faint, at Victor and then pets at the demanding dog. “It’s getting dark. We should head home.”

 _Home_. Victor likes the sound of that. He has only been in Hasetsu for a season, but he can’t imagine being anywhere else. Even St. Petersburg, where he was born and raised, feels like a distant stranger compared to the warmth of this sleepy shoreside town. Although the Yuuri Victor had met during the banquet has yet to reappear, it is instances like these that reassure Victor that he had made the right decision.

“Okay,” Victor says, and does not reach for Yuuri’s hand, although it misses the fleeting presence of Yuuri’s within its grasp.

The walk back to the onsen is comfortable in its silence. Victor keeps his hands within his pants pockets, so that they do not betray him. Yuuri’s are open by his sides, Makkachin’s leash looped around one wrist.

They’re past the bridge when Yuuri’s gaze darts up and he stops. Victor gives him a quizzical look, but Yuuri just hands off the leash with a hurried, “Wait right here.”

So Victor waits. He has been waiting this long; he has already proven he will wait for Yuuri, no matter the reason, for however long the other desires.

After a few minutes, Yuuri returns with a mischievous grin. He holds a nondescript wrapper in his hand, which he tears into, revealing a light yellow twin ice pop. “Don’t say anything,” Yuuri says before Victor has a chance to voice disapproval. With the tip on his tongue set between his teeth, Yuuri carefully splits the popsicle apart, handing one half over to Victor with aplomb. “It’s yuzu flavored. It’s not that bad if we share it.”

Victor wordlessly accepts, careful to avoid the sticky patch on the handle.

Yuuri licks at his half, a delighted little noise escaping his lips. “You’ll allow this, right? Coach?”

And there _that_ is: that coyness that flashes every now and then, that Victor is utterly weak to.

“Right.”

When they arrive home, kicking off their shoes with an announcement of “ _Tadaima_ ,” Victor joins in on the greeting. Although the word itself is foreign on his tongue, it feels right. Natural. Like he could make a habit out of it.

Well. He has until the Grand Prix Final. Maybe longer, if he can deliver on his promise to Yuuri, and Yuuri decides he’s pleased enough to keep Victor around.

At the very least, he can enjoy these next six months of it.

  


ﾟ＊ﾟฺﾟ✿♡*:,ﾟ＊.•

  


_Love_. His theme is love.

Victor might not have understood the specifics of what had been said during that press conference, but that much he had understood.

He wonders if he should dare allow the feelings he had buried to grow. There is no promise of them bearing fruit. But a tiny sapling as already taken root.

  


ﾟ＊ﾟฺﾟ✿♡*:,ﾟ＊.•

  


Victor gets it now.

Yuuri reminds Victor of himself. It makes perfect, maddening sense.

It takes one attempted final quad, a face-first crash into the boards, and a nosebleed for Victor to see it, but things are finally starting to make sense.

Victor’s heart may have done a little jump itself at the sight. But for now, he will keep this secret to himself.

  


ﾟ＊ﾟฺﾟ✿♡*:,ﾟ＊.•

  


He should have seen it coming. To everyone’s surprise but Victor, the Cup of China is where his Yuuri wins the short program, ushering him into the lead for the free program. Yuuri skates dangerously, seductively, and most notably, _for_ Victor. It is the first time the world is graced by this incarnation of Katsuki Yuuri, and no one can tear their eyes away. A fierce swell of pride washes over Victor’s heart: sweeping a small regional championship is one thing, but _this_ is their debut on the international stage. And Yuuri christens it as their first significant accomplishment together as skater and coach.

At the kiss and cry, Yuuri squinting at the jumbotron as he awaits his scores, Victor holds onto him in front of a multitude of fans and wonders when he had started thinking of Yuuri as “his” Yuuri.

“Did it feel that good?” he asks, because Victor knows that Yuuri is hypercritical. Above all, Victor wants Yuuri to do something they both had lost: _enjoy_ skating. It isn’t that they had loved skating any less, but competition means constantly proving oneself—venturing alone and carving out one’s very soul in arcing lines and spirals, then offering it to a panel of spectators to pick apart and evaluate. It is not an easy task—it never gets any less difficult—and part of Victor had loved that, too, but he had also lost himself somewhere in the process. Too many fragments of himself left behind, until the remnants shaped something unrecognizable.

Until the trailing fragments became links in the chains that bound him.

Yuuri should be pleased. Although Yuuri has medaled before, he has never taken first place in anything outside of national competitions.

Instead, the view from the top cripples him.

Yuuri picks at his dinner, his usually robust appetite vanquished, then tosses and turns in his bed all night. Victor knows; he is a light sleeper. He wishes to do something, but he does not know how to reassure the other man. He is still blunt where Yuuri needs refinement, too sharp against Yuuri’s thin skin. So they both lie awake, together yet achingly alone, and Victor bears it.

He should have seen the fight coming, too. “Fight” is probably not the right word for it, though. Victor misreads Yuuri entirely, pushing and pushing on a glass heart that had already fractured underneath the mounting pressure. Worst of all, it shatters like Victor expects, but for a reason he would never have guessed.

Sometimes Victor believes he does not deserve Yuuri. This is one of those instances.

Because the reason Yuuri’s heart falls to pieces is _for Victor_. Because all this time, Yuuri has been thinking of _Victor_ , and how the world would perceive _him_ , instead of worrying over himself.

Growing up, Yakov had often admonished him for his lack of subtlety. Victor is self-aware, but that quality at times clashes with the situations unfolding around him. _“Should I kiss you, or something?”_ as though a distraction in the form of a romantic notion would solve anything. If a kiss is all it takes to “cure” Yuuri, then he surely could have had a cabinet of gold medals by now.

_“You’re smart, Vitya, but you haven’t any brains!”_

Why is that old man always right about everything?

_“Just believe in me more than I believe in myself! Stay by my side and don’t leave!”_

The entire time, what Yuuri had needed had been in front of Victor. Beyond words, Yuuri had told him. Victor just hadn’t _listened_.

He is listening now, as Yuuri fights through his free program. And in the end, Yuuri is still looking out for _him_ , rather than the other way around. Victor still has so much to figure out: about coaching, about himself, about Yuuri. And he needs to get Yuuri to realize this, too: Yuuri is so much stronger than he gives himself credit for.

There is this look Yuuri gets whenever he is about to be swept away by a whim. His eyebrows furrow, and there’s a glint to his eyes that at the same time flares with unbridled desire and shrugs _fuck it_. At the very end of his program, Victor catches it on Yuuri’s face. It is fleeting—a blink and you’ll miss it instance—but the turns into the last jump are undeniable.

One, two, three, four.

Yuuri falls, but it is a completely rotated quad flip.

 _His_ quad flip.

The moment is crowned by a hand over Yuuri’s heart, his other reaching out to Victor.

It is always Yuuri reaching out to him.

And now, Victor must give yet another answer.

Much later, he will admit he probably shouldn’t have, but Victor cannot contain himself any longer, and he has always trusted his instincts so far…

The world needs to know just how much Victor Nikiforov cares for Katsuki Yuuri.

And Yuuri needs to know, too. With this, there is no way to hide or dance around it. Victor quite literally crashes into Yuuri, an impact that had been coming for months. The completion of a butterfly flapping its wings in Sochi, the force spinning around the world until it came back to propel Victor forward onto that ice with the force of a tsunami.

Time stops in the moment they collide, their lips joining as camera flashes burst like the height of a meteor shower. Yuuri’s lips are slightly tacky from the residual lip balm, still chapped from too much exposure to cold and a night of unrest. But they are sweet in their surprise, disarmingly chaste, and wholly intoxicating, and if it could, Victor’s heart would leap out of its chest to join with Yuuri’s.

Victor cradles Yuuri as they plummet, the ice embracing their descent. It is fitting: it is the thing that ultimately brought them together, curved their lives’ trajectories toward an intersection instead of parallel lines.

Something like hope springs in Victor’s chest when Yuuri does not push him away. No, there is no sign of embarrassment or agitation in Yuuri’s eyes when they break apart and Victor stares down at him. Yuuri gazes back at Victor like he has hung the moon, or has become the moon itself.

Almost like he has danced the night away, sailing upon a current of fizzing champagne bubbles.

  


ﾟ＊ﾟฺﾟ✿♡*:,ﾟ＊.•

  


His skin is still buzzing with what had happened earlier. With what he had _done_.

But Victor does not regret it one bit, although maybe international television might not have been the best or most romantic place to have a first kiss, in retrospect.

They should probably talk about this. Victor had thought that he and Yuuri had developed a system of communicating that worked for them, but the night had obviously proved him disastrously wrong. He still has a long way to go to distilling just how Katsuki Yuuri ticked. With the way Yuuri keeps evolving—shedding layers only to swath himself in new, indecipherable ones—Victor could spend the rest of his days on this planet trying to figure Yuuri out and failing. Talking would probably...hopefully...work some of those issues out.

Words only go so far, though. Some things—often the important ones—must be felt as well.

Yuuri attends the press conference as though in a daze, the silver medal at home around his neck. Victor would love to see more hanging off Yuuri’s shoulders, a whole case’s worth of ribbons with shining circular accolades. Perhaps even a gold one next time.

It is still early in the season, though. No point in rushing things, which might do more harm than good. But if Victor is to make good on his promise, then Yuuri needs to make the next competition count. Silver is not gold, and a singular silver alone will not grant entrance into the Final.

Later, Yuuri flits like a bird in their hotel room, never truly landing in one place. Victor watches him as Yuuri rummages in his suitcase, then sets out his sleepwear, then floats over to the bathroom and then back again. His face has a perpetual flush to it every time he glances at Victor, darkening whenever their eyes meet. Each time, Victor grants him a small smile before looking away and busying himself.

This is something he has learned about Yuuri: when Yuuri is ready, he will inevitably come to you. And so, as he has made habit, Victor keeps his distance and waits.

When they are both showered and winding down to sleep, Yuuri sits hesitantly on the edge of his bed. He wrings his hands in his lap, his gaze downturned like a flower that awaits the rising of the sun. Victor climbs into his own bed and reaches over to turn off his bedside lamp. “We should get to sleep,” he murmurs into the quiet of the room, “We have an early wake-up call tomorrow.”

In the half-darkness of the room, Victor cannot properly see Yuuri’s face. He is still, barely breathing. And then his head abruptly lifts, and he strides the few steps bearing the distance between their double beds. “Can I…” he starts, chewing on his bottom lip. Yuuri isn’t looking at Victor, still deliberating something inside that fathomless mind. “Can we sleep in the same bed tonight?” he finishes, now staring straight down at Victor. Even within the shadows, Victor can discern the blush burning across his cheeks.

Instead of answering, Victor pulls back the covers and shifts backwards to make space. He is not good with words, not yet. Sometimes he knows just what to say—what Yuuri _needs_ —and sometimes he makes a mess of things. Even something so simple as a _yes_ could break this moment.

Yuuri exhales and nods, turning his own lamp off and setting his glasses aside before settling in beside Victor. He pulls the covers all the way up to his chin, hands resolutely netted together over his stomach. Victor wants to laugh—Yuuri looks as though he’s reclining in a _coffin_ rather than a hotel bed—but he keeps his thoughts to himself and scoots fractionally closer, lying on his side facing the other man. Victor can feel the fabric of Yuuri’s sweatshirt against his elbow; it’s soft and well-worn. He wants to bury his face in it. To lean over and taste those lips again, because once was far from enough. But Yuuri had offered no further kisses, and Victor was not going to take them.

Outside their thin curtains, the city continues to move. Flashes of red, green, and orange twinkle from below. Yuuri’s breathing evens out and slows, and then he is carried off to dreams. Carefully, Victor slides an arm over, his pinky reaching the edge of Yuuri’s sleeve. He falls asleep to the droning sound of traffic-filled streets and gentle snoring.

When the pale light of dawn wakes Victor in the morning, well before their alarm is set to ring, he finds Yuuri pressed close to his side. His mouth is open slightly, his face soft and unguarded, his hair adorably sleep-mussed. He has wedged himself into the crook of Victor’s shoulder, one hand holding onto the front of Victor’s sleep shirt.

Yuuri is warm, like a little human space heater. His presence is reassuring in a way that is different from waking with Makkachin. Something about it radiates _forever_.

Victor could spend the rest of his days waking like this and never want for more.

  


ﾟ＊ﾟฺﾟ✿♡*:,ﾟ＊.•

  


Victor realizes he is in love not when he and Yuuri are together, but when they are separated. When Yuuri, stronger than he knows, takes Victor by the shoulders and insists— _pleads_ with him—to return to Japan. Even if it meant parting from his side to leave him alone during the competition that will make or break their promise. If Yuuri does not move onto the Final, then everything they had worked so hard to achieve will fall apart at the seams.

There is no chance of winning if you are not even invited to compete.

But Yuuri sends Victor off anyway.

“You’ll regret it,” Yuuri says, when his heart bleeds, _I regret it_. “If you’re not there with her.”

Victor swallows the lump in his throat, gives Yuuri the tightest hug he can manage, and swallows his pride. Yakov, despite his stormy manner, loves the sport and values not only his athletes, but the entire skating community. He will take care of Yuuri, perhaps even better than what Victor has managed. As Victor watches Yuuri fade from inside a taxi, he sends a prayer up to whoever is listening. _Please_ , he begs, not knowing for what or how much to ask. Only that he houses this great desire: for Yuuri, for his baby Makkachin, for everyone who supports Yuuri, and maybe a little for himself.

On the plane, departing three days too early and with an empty seat beside him, it hits Victor.

He is in love.

Not just with the mirage of a charming drunken man, but with the Yuuri who he has come to know and understand, including all of his fears and anxieties and strengths. Victor had felt the stirrings of it in China during their first kiss, and the emotion had only grown with each subsequent kiss and touch and smile that Yuuri had gifted him. Every time Yuuri laughed or felt proud of himself, or looked at Victor with a fondness that caused his chest to ache, or matched Victor’s demands with dogged determination. How he always accepted everything Victor was willing to offer, and waited patiently for Victor give the rest.

On this thirteen hour flight where Victor is alone with his thoughts, his feelings have solidified into something tangible. This feeling is more real than the titles to his name or the medals hanging in his closet. Victor Nikiforov, the man loved by all, but who had no one to love. Until now.

That kind of ubiquitous love can be toxic; it numbs one to the love around them.

Now that Victor has been separated from Yuuri, however temporary, he doesn't want to let Yuuri go again. Not ever. He has never felt this way before. Even figure skating, his biggest love, Victor knew he would one day have to part with. There would eventually come a time where landing quads would become the exception and not the rule, when his back would protest bending low for spins, when his feet decide they’d had enough of toe picks and tight laces.

Even Makkachin, as all pet owners understand, he has finite time with. It is why he is on this flight, traveling across an ocean. And nothing confirms Victor’s feelings more than the realization that he wishes Yuuri could be by his side if this was Makkachin's time to go—not Yakov, who had been present when Victor had first gotten her, or some barren space.

But Yuuri...he wants Yuuri for as long as Yuuri will have him.

It was as if Victor had skated that program as a call to the universe, and the universe answered him.

And the universe is kind yet again when he lands, and the veterinarian delivers good news. When he receives a text from Yakov that contains only Yuuri’s score, followed a few minutes later with _See you in Barcelona_. When Makkachin is released from care—whole and alive and breathing—and Victor descends upon her with tearful kisses and half-hearted admonishments. It almost makes Victor fear how many good karma points he must have used up over the period of a couple of days, because such good luck certainly cannot continue unchecked.

Two days after their parting, Victor finds himself surrounded by planes yet again. This time, though, he is not alone: Makkachin waits next to him, because Yuuri has become her human as much as Victor is. Victor can barely contain himself as he waits in the arrival zone, his body vibrating with anticipation and yearning. It’s so silly to feel this way: it has only been two days, Yuuri skipping the banquet and gala, citing a family emergency. But the guilt at not being with Yuuri when it mattered eats at Victor. He should have been there...it had almost cost them Yuuri’s dream.

The minutes tick by, punctuated on the second by the bobbing of Victor’s knee. And then there is a new flood of people with their backpacks and suitcases, and then there he is. The one Victor has waited for.

When Victor holds out his arms and Yuuri races into them without hesitation, Victor knows. He wants Yuuri to be his last. If Victor is to love one person for the remainder of his life, then this is it: he wants it to be Yuuri.

Somehow, it’s like Yuuri knows, too. “Please take care of me until I retire,” he says, a ferocity and raw earnestness burning his eyes alight.

“It’s almost like a marriage proposal,” Victor murmurs as he kisses Yuuri’s knuckle, where he would like to place a ring. Over the months, he has grown accustomed to how Yuuri will say things without actually saying them. Yuuri sketches ideas with his words, colors them with his motions, brings them to life through his passion. It is an art that Victor has learned to interpret.

It is now or never.

“I’d wish you’d never retire,” Victor says and holds Yuuri close, because while Yuuri might not have really been proposing, Victor’s answer is the same regardless. He wants to be with Yuuri, always. He hopes with all of his heart that Yuuri understands the things that Victor himself cannot say, just yet.

The tears that spill down his coat and the way Yuuri squeezes him tighter are the only answers Victor needs. Victor basks in Yuuri’s return and clings to this awful thing called hope.

  


ﾟ＊ﾟฺﾟ✿♡*:,ﾟ＊.•

  


“Take me sightseeing,” Yuuri says as he glides off the ice, accepting his skate guards with practiced ease. Victor likes it when Yuuri leans on him, the press of their bodies together light but electrifying. It makes him feel reliable, like he’s doing something right.

Yuuri is abnormally insistent, which might belie an issue they should talk about, but Victor decides to let the matter pass. He had tried one method of dealing with Yuuri’s anxiety at the start of the season, and it had proven abominable. Victor had not been with Yuuri during the last half of Rostelecom, and the anxiety due to Victor’s absence had nearly cost them the entire competition. So if this is how Yuuri wishes to manage whatever anxious feelings are creeping in and seeking to swallow him, Victor will not argue. He will be happy to play a distraction for Yuuri and take him around one of his favorite cities.

Barcelona is a romantic city, but Victor had never really connected with it in that regard until today. Before, he had seen the sights mostly alone, but had never really _shared_ the experience of exploring a new place together with someone. But here with Yuuri, the music in the air seeps into his muscles, making Victor feel lighter on his feet. The streetlamps burn a little softer, the old and weathered architecture set against the relief of the clear sky whisper their stories, the surrounding tourists share in their whimsy. Even the cobblestone roads they stroll upon feel like they will lead to some memorious adventure.

It is the beginning of December, the chill in the air pronounced. Victor wants to wrap his arm around Yuuri, but he keeps his hands to himself, instead filling Yuuri’s hands with shopping bags as they hop from boutique to boutique. They snap pictures together, capturing memories in pixels they can carry around with them. They dine at a corner table in a small mom and pop bistro, and Victor serves Yuuri big helpings of paella without worrying about the calorie count. Before long, night falls, the sky fading from bright blue to a soft and hazy pink, before succumbing to a deep marine.

Soon, Victor will be another year older. In just a few days’ time, it will have been a year since Yuuri danced his way into Victor’s heart, altering his life completely. This coming birthday will be a stark difference from his last one: no longer alone, no longer dreading the future but welcoming its infinite possibility.

Yuuri has folded into himself since their quarrel over the missing bag of nuts, growing taciturn but making attempts to signal to Victor that they are okay. Victor appreciates Yuuri’s subdued concern, and he doesn’t wish to trouble the man further before an important day, so he stays quiet and allows Yuuri the privacy of his thoughts.

And there it is again: that rare flash of a spark. Yuuri halts abruptly, his face a bright crimson, almost as deep as the cup of hot wine in Victor’s hand. He takes off, grabbing Victor’s hand and dragging him along, until they’re standing in front of a shop with Yuuri pressing his fists and forehead against the window display. “Victor! Let’s go into this store!”

Inside, Yuuri beelines to the back display case, hunching over the glass as he fervently scans its goods.

It occurs belatedly to Victor that Yuuri has marched them into an artisan jewelry shop. Multicolored jewels and metals glimmer underneath bright overheads, and everything is happening too fast. Victor hangs back towards the door, giving Yuuri distance as he proceeds with his mission.

Underneath the gilded lights of La Sagrada Família, with carollers singing by its front steps, Yuuri pulls Victor into a secluded spot tucked away from the crowds. Their shopping bags lie forgotten at their feets, a small velvet box tucked safely into his coat pocket. With trembling hands, Yuuri removes Victor’s gloves and wordlessly slides a band of gold onto his right ring finger. The ring catches on Victor’s knuckle, and the metal is cold against his skin. Yuuri stares hard at the sight, his head ducked and his cheeks on fire.

“Thank you for everything up to now. I… I couldn’t think of something better.” He toys with the band, his scarf muddling the words. “But, well...I’ll try my best starting tomorrow, so...it’s for good luck.”

Victor has never seen Yuuri this vulnerable. He is soft and hesitant, as though still uncertain as to how Victor will react. Victor loves him so, so much.

Switching their hands’ grasp, Victor takes the other ring and places it upon Yuuri’s finger. They’re a matching set, and the band looks like it has always belonged there. He laces their hands together and looks into Yuuri’s eyes. They are a beautiful brown, warm and rich, amber reflections underneath the golden glow. What they are doing feels sacred.

“Okay. Then for good luck, you won’t have to think about anything. Tomorrow, show me the skating that you can honestly say you liked best.” No matter the intention, this is another promise they share. Victor believes in Yuuri: in what he can do, in what he wants, in what they will build together in the future. This moment, right here, is already a gold medal.

Victor brings Yuuri’s hand to his lips, kissing the ring. He had always thought he would be the one to propose and select the rings; he has fantasized about this moment for months, long before he had completely fallen under Katsuki Yuuri’s spell. But this is fine. It’s perfect. It is what Yuuri wants, and Victor wouldn’t have it any other way.

At dinner, surrounded by their friends, Victor’s world is upended.

“Yuuri, you don’t remember?” Victor catches a lungful of his beer at Yuuri’s “At last year’s Final, I was always by myself, even at the banquet. I couldn’t even talk to Victor!” He said it so casually, so _innocently_ , as though he hadn’t just changed all the rules in their playbook.

Yuuri blanches, glancing nervously about the table. Christophe takes pity on him and rips the bandaid off. “Yuuri, you got drunk on champagne and started dancing. Everyone saw it.”

It is as though the final puzzle piece, long missing but finally reclaimed, slightly bent along the edge, slots into place. No wonder Yuuri had reacted so aloof and skittish when Victor had first arrived in Hasetsu: he didn’t remember a damn thing about that night.

The revelation hits Victor just as hard as it hits Yuuri. To be honest, he isn’t sure how he feels about this. All this time, Yuuri has been missing a vital piece of their story. They had met long before he had first believed, under extremely different circumstances. _Yuuri_ had been the one who quite literally had swept Victor off his feet, then left him out to dry for months on end. A part of Victor wishes Yuuri could remember, because it is a memory that Victor cherishes. It is their origin, the seedling of their love story, and yet Victor is the only one who effectively experienced it. For Yuuri, even with photographic evidence, that night never happened.

And yet. They still ended up here, together, with a vow wrapped in gold for the world to see.

“What’s with the rings, you two?”

If possible, Yuuri pales even further. He slaps his left hand around his right, covering the jewelry. “Um, this is…”

“They’re a pair!” Victor happily chimes in, because why hide it? Yuuri’s entire season had been built upon his desire to show their bond to the world, so why not display it to those closest to them?

Phichit has stars in his eyes. “Congrats on your marriage!” he all but screams, to Yuuri’s frantic protests. Not to be dissuaded, Phichit turns to the rest of the diners and exclaims, “Everyone! My good friend got married!”

Yuuri is still flailing excuses, and Victor laughs, because he would really like to know what these “other things” Yuuri is talking about are.

Victor may be enjoying this _just_ a little. He smiles wide and holds up his hand. The gold glints brightly, announcing itself to all the spectators. “Yeah, don’t get the wrong idea,” he says, to Yuuri’s visible relief, “This is an engagement ring. We’ll get married once he wins a gold medal.”

Yuuri’s jaw might as well have broken off and fallen to the floor. Victor smiles brightly at him. “Right, Yuuri?”

Yuuri, blushing a bouquet of roses, does not deny it.

The night ends without incident, everyone retiring to prepare for the following day’s short program. The beds of their hotel room are set close enough that Yuuri and Victor only have to pull up the top sheets and coverlets of the divide for them to slot together. There is a noticeable dip where the two mattresses meet, and it is not the most comfortable setup, but Yuuri falls asleep easily enough, tucked into Victor’s chest. Victor threads his fingers through Yuuri’s hair and listens as Yuuri’s soft snores sync with his own heartbeat. Just when the tingle in Victor’s arm warns him it’s about to go numb, he lifts his right hand up and stares at its back.

The ring Yuuri gave him reflects even in the dark of the bedroom, pulling light toward it naturally.

In the morning, Victor rises early, as he always does, and carefully extracts himself from Yuuri’s octopus-like grasp, substituting himself with an extra pillow. Yuuri mumbles and turns in his sleep, calling out for Victor, but does not wake. Victor presses a kiss to his forehead and slips away.

He just needs a moment to himself to _think_. So much happened the night before, and his life will never be the same because of it.

Drawn in by the calming cry of the gulls, Victor finds himself at the boardwalk just after dawn, staring out into the winter-gray waters of the Mediterranean. The scent of salt is a welcome slice of home, although if Victor is thinking of Piter or Hasetsu, he cannot decipher.

It doesn’t really matter though, does it? They have both become his home, because while St. Petersburg may house his roots, Victor has built a home in Yuuri.

The sun has just risen over the horizon, its rays more white than yellow. A blank slate. Victor lifts his hand, as though he could hold the star in his grasp. His ring glows.

Victor doesn’t have to guess who his rude intruder is; very few people would know where to find him at this early hour. Yakov is one of them, and the other is this tiny shadow.

“Victor Nikiforov is dead.”

Victor cannot argue, nor does he want to. Yura is right.

The man he once was no longer exists. He has been transformed, reborn, freed from the chains that had sought to smother the life from him.

Victor gives his thanks to that person, and then bids him goodbye.

  


ﾟ＊ﾟฺﾟ✿♡*:,ﾟ＊.•

  


“After the Final, let’s end this.”

The words cut into Victor like well-positioned bullets.

…End? Last season?

When had Yuuri decided this? Hadn’t they only just begun?

 _I wish you’d never retire_.

Who knew forever could be so short.

  


ﾟ＊ﾟฺﾟ✿♡*:,ﾟ＊.•

  


_“How much longer are you going to stay in warm-up mode?”_

True to their history, Yuuri never fails in surprising Victor. At the Final, Yuuri _makes_ history.

A quadruple flip and a flawless program earn Yuuri a world record. After skipping a day of public practice, a sleepless and desperate night full of tears, tension and silence and more tears, Yuuri had conjured up a beautiful swan song to the love that had guided him through his first twenty-four years of life and bested his idol’s long-held score in the process.

Victor cries, because he does not yet know what this means for him and Yuuri, because the performance ached to behold, because that may have been the last time they would hold hands and Victor had not wanted to let go. Watching it had felt familiar in an unexpected way: it was Yuuri’s longing plea, a cry for the world to really _look_ at him, to demonstrate everything he had learned and been given—the culmination of his declaration from the start. Victor might as well have been watching himself out there on the ice, except Yuuri’s message was not one of emptiness and despair.

Yuuri had skated to the center of the rink and shouted his love.

Love had rewarded him with a silver medal.

It is not the gold that Victor had promised, nor is it the gold that Yuuri had sought to obtain. They had fallen 0.12 points short.

But it’s enough. It is better than gold, because it unlocks a drive within Yuuri—a new pathway he hadn’t the vision to see at the onset of their journey together until he had come upon the crossroads.

“Please stay with me in competitive figure skating for one more year!” Yuuri blurts as he pushes Victor to the floor in an embrace. “This time, I’ll win gold for sure!”

And _this_. This is what Victor loves. Although he has his own apprehensions at picking his competitive career back up while continuing as Yuuri’s coach, Victor would do anything for Yuuri. Yuuri has given him so much: their meeting kindled within Victor a new life, blazing and radiant, proving the improbable possible time and time again.

 _Stay close to me_ , Victor had asked.

 _And never leave_ , Yuuri answers.

  


ﾟ＊ﾟฺﾟ✿♡*:,ﾟ＊.•

  


Yuuri does not bother changing out of his costume at the end of the competition, instead zipping his warm-up suit over it since they are heading back to their room anyway. And that’s fine, perfect even. Victor wants to be the one to peel it off of him.

Victor barely makes it through the doorway before he throws himself upon Yuuri.

“I thought you only wanted to kiss gold,” Yuuri laughs as he playfully pushes Victor away, derailing his onslaught.

Taking Yuuri’s hand in his, Victor raises it to kiss the ring. He will never tire of this. Yuuri flushes darkly, his eyes dilating into honey-colored halos. “You will always be my gold,” he says, moving to steal Yuuri’s lips once again.

“Victor– the press conference—we’ll be late.” Yuuri’s protests are muffled and weak under the urgency of Victor’s hands as they divest Yuuri of his clothes. The team jacket is the first thing to go, tossed thoughtlessly to the floor. Then Victor carefully undoes the snaps of Yuuri’s top, mindful of its delicately-applied crystals. He strips Yuuri leg by leg of his pants, grateful for the fabric’s stretch as Yuuri kicks them away. The sparkling bodysuit follows soon after.

“Let them wait,” Victor replies. Because he has waited so long for this, and he wants to savor this moment. “I want to eat my winning katsudon.”

Yuuri sputters in embarrassment, lightly smacking Victor on the shoulder. “You’ll never let me live that down, will you?”

“Nope,” Victor grins as he walks Yuuri back to the bed. Victor strips off his suit jacket and loosens the knot of his tie as Yuuri’s knees buckle against the edge. Yuuri rolls his eyes, but his expression is soft with adoration. He sits back and waits as Victor falls to his knees between Yuuri’s legs.

This is not the first time Victor has run his hands over Yuuri’s muscular thighs, but it is the first time he has done so in such an intimate manner. He traverses his touch up to the waistband of Yuuri’s underwear, feeling the flex and resistance of firm muscle under soft skin. After receiving a tiny nod, Victor hooks the tips of his fingers under and pulls. Yuuri lifts his hips, assisting in sliding the garment down.

This is not the first time Victor has seen Yuuri naked, but it is the first time he has seen Yuuri flushed and full with desire. Victor takes Yuuri in hand and firmly strokes, watching in awe as Yuuri tips his head back and groans. Yuuri hooks a leg over Victor’s shoulder as though they have done this countless times, encouraging him forward with the slight pressure of his heel.

But it’s Victor’s turn to set the pace. Yuuri has led their entire relationship up until this point, with Victor following along at Yuuri’s whim. Now it is Victor’s chance to unravel Yuuri, to introduce him to pleasure in a way that Victor knows how to provide.

Victor takes his time, learning the feel of Yuuri in his palm, committing the shape and size of him to memory. There is an honesty to Yuuri’s body, and Victor watches for the subtle shifts that indicate Yuuri’s enjoyment: which motions elicit hitches in breath or a trembling down to his toes. And when Yuuri’s breath grows ragged and desperate, Victor finally leans in to take him in mouth.

Yuuri sucks in a harsh gasp as Victor runs his tongue around the head of Yuuri’s cock. Yuuri tastes of salt and glory, a hard-won victory, like completion. Victor pulls himself down further, encircling Yuuri with his lips, moving in accordance to make Yuuri’s body sing with satisfaction.

With one hand kneading at the juncture of Yuuri’s hip, Victor slides back and forth in a slow rhythm, the other hand resting lightly at Yuuri’s knee, spreading him open. Victor mouths along the underside of Yuuri’s shaft, sucking along a pronounced vein, earning him a soft swear. Yuuri keeps his eyes open the entire time, though they are half-lidded and hazed, but always locked onto Victor.

Blunt nails rake across Victor’s scalp, and Victor can’t contain the stifled moan that erupts from deep within his chest. Yuuri’s cock twitches on his tongue, and it is the only warning Victor gets before Yuuri spills into him, the hand in his hair tightening, but not enough to cause pain. Yuuri comes quietly, tiny staccato gasps and a rabbit heartbeat pulsing under the tightness of his abdomen.

Yuuri flops back onto the bed with a short laugh, his legs splaying around Victor. “I can’t believe that just happened,” he says as he catches his breath. He stills for a few seconds, mustering the strength to pull himself back up on his elbows, and leans down as Victor presses upwards for a kiss. Yuuri’s mouth is sweet, a contrast to his release.

“Believe it,” Victor sighs when they part, resting his forehead against Yuuri’s. His knees are beginning to ache, but he doesn’t want to move yet from his position. “Dreams do come true.”

Covering his face, Yuuri drops back against the bed. “Oh my god.”

“Who said I was talking about you?” Victor teases with a wide smirk. Yuuri peeks at him through his fingers and nudges at Victor’s hip with his foot. His face has, impossibly, turned redder.

Victor laughs, and it’s never felt so bright. He falls forward to embrace Yuuri, crushing them chest to chest, and Yuuri’s arms automatically envelope him, keeping him close. His Yuuri is far too adorable. Victor wishes they had more time; later, when there is no rush, they can give themselves fully to each other.

Yuuri rolls them to their sides, so that they can face one another comfortably. His eyes are still blown wide, but the brown is beginning to return to eclipse the black. His hair is messy and sweat-slick, the red of his embarrassment has faded to a contented flush.

Yuuri scoots in closer and tangles his legs with Victor’s. “What can I do for you?” he whispers as he plays with an errant lock of Victor’s hair, rolling it between his fingertips.

So Victor guides Yuuri’s hands, directing him in how to please him. Yuuri attends to Victor with single-minded conviction, and soon Victor finds himself falling over the precipice, unable to hold back from the simple connection of Yuuri’s long-awaited touch. He shudders into Yuuri’s shoulder as he comes, and when it passes, Yuuri is there to catch him with soft kisses to his temple.

(Someday soon, with matching rings and regardless of the cut or color of tuxedo, Victor will marry this man.)

They will have to make themselves presentable and leave soon. But for this stolen moment, the two bask in the newly-opened stage of their relationship, that to Victor, somehow feels like something he has always known. Like the first snowfall of the season, ice under his boots, or the calling of his name.

Like the sight of seagulls sailing over open water at dawn.

  


ﾟ＊ﾟฺﾟ✿♡*:,ﾟ＊.•

  


They begin again where they had started. It is in Russia where they had fallen into an inescapable gravity, in Russia where Victor realized he was in love, and where Victor currently waits for love to return to him.

Victor has just turned twenty-eight. They sit at the cusp of a new year, one he and Yuuri will welcome together with a kiss at midnight and perhaps might send off with a profession of vows. The days that Victor has spent waiting have come to a close. The cold of St. Petersburg bites into Victor’s skin, but he pays it no mind. They might be in the middle of winter, but the longest winter of Victor’s life has finally passed.

Because Yuuri, racing toward him with Makkachin at his heels and a sweet flush of cherry blossoms on his cheeks, brings the promise of spring.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to hear what you think! Comments, kudos, shares, any level of coherent or incoherent screaming are all appreciated! ♡
> 
> Talk to me on [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/kaguneesan)!


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